


Dog On A Leash

by Mandibles



Series: Rare Teen Wolf Threesomes [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Collars, Daddykink, Dom/sub, Geez, I like puppy!Jackson more than any decent human being should, I really like going into a darker side of Stiles too, Leashes, M/M, Muzzles, Petplay, Porn Without Plot, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/529008">Apologies</a>.</p><p>The bite heals, but, in a way, it doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dog On A Leash

**Author's Note:**

> For those interested, Jackson's wearing something similar to [this](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m8imagGRC71qdrf6qo1_500.jpg).

The bite heals in small marks that will fade in time. And, though it takes hours upon hours of mind-numbing straight porn and a good bit of ninja-grade avoidance maneuvers, the memory of what happened because of that damn bite fades, too.

For the most part.

There are times when he catches that sleazy curl of Peter’s lips or when he stumbles upon Jackson at the Hale house and it comes back to him in flashes. He isn’t one to admit it, but sometimes he gasps awake at night, tickled by phantom hands and pink tongues until he’s trembling from head to toe and working a furious hand over his cock. The best orgasms, Stiles decides, are the ones you don’t want.

But, uh, yeah, besides that everything has gotten right back on track, back to normal, and if he’s a little skittish around dogs now, he can chalk it up all this crazy werewolf shit getting to him. Which, actually, isn’t too far from the truth. It has absolutely nothing to do with the eager way Jackson’s tongue had lolled out, a dog aching for a treat, a beast aching for Stiles’ come and—

Erm. Right. Anyway.

The point here is, he’s able to scowl at Peter without cringing at his stupid, knowing smirk and butt heads with Jackson’s mile-high ego again, so everything’s fine, good.

Until, of course, he pushes Jackson just a liiittle too far one day and gets a nice fist to the face.

Right in front of Peter.

Needless to say, he gets a text from “Jackson” the next day and finds himself hanging outside of Jackson’s very own burnt-out room at the Hale house after school, shifting anxiously from foot to foot.

Just for the record, Stiles Stilinski is not an idiot. Far from it, in fact. He is, however, too curious for his own damn good, enough so that the faint noises from inside he can just barely make out—animalistic huffs and a groaning mattress—don’t deter him from bursting through the door before his nerves get to him and he decides to run off and—oh.

Oh.

There’s just—There’s just skin. Hot, pale, sweat-slicked skin glistening in the afternoon light, muscles writing and bunching and contracting beneath with every smooth movement. And, that’s just Jackson, all bare skin as he rides Peter’s dick on his makes shift bed. Well, he’s naked save for the—the fucking cage dog muzzle he wears—black and leather, the snout long—and the heavy-looking chain that connects his neck to Peter’s hand.

The chain clanks, Jackson’s hips jerk to an abrupt stop, and, wow, just—Can we talk about fucked? Because, this is all kinds of it.

A tense second passes as Stiles’ brain fights his dick for blood-usage. “What the actual fuck?” he wheezes once it wins.

Peter smiles lazily at him. “Took you long enough, Stiles. We were worried you decided not to come.” He yanks at the lead and Jackson obediently lurches down, moaning pathetically at that word—come.

Stiles flounders. “Yeah, well, uh, I—” He stuffs his hands, sweaty and shaky, into his pockets. “Just figured I’d be fashionably late, you know?”

“Well, that’s not fair,” Peter says, casting a rueful look on his pet. “Jackson here missed you. He got so restless waiting for you he needed me to take care of him and fill him up. Didn’t you, pup?”

Jackson worries at his lip for a moment, kneads Peter’s like an anxious puppy before he glances at Stiles with those big, blue eyes of his, the dark straps of the muzzle stark against his freckled face. When he nods, just slightly, it punches all the air from Stiles’ lungs in a quiet, “Jesus Christ.”

Peter chuckles. “The least you can do, I think,” he continues, “is to join us now that you’re here.”

Stiles sputters.

Whoa. Aha.  _No_.

Except yes? Maybe?

… Fuck.

“What’s in it for me?” Stiles demands even as he tugs his hoodie over his head, because he can think of a lot of things he could gain from this, as fucked as it all is. Well, actually, just one thing: getting off. Getting off with someone who isn’t his right hand, more specifically. “You’re not going to sic him on me again, are you?”

“Never,” Peter lies, smirking when Stiles tosses his shirt aside, too. Then, he amends, “At least not while he’s wearing this.” He nods up at Jackson as he drags blunt, human nails down Jackson’s back, leaving four—no, eight—red streaks in his wake. The sound that tumbles from Jackson’s throat is disgusting. “Now, come here,” beckons Peter. “Let us make amends.

Stiles hesitates, but eventually gives in to Jackson’s pretty pink pout. Curious, he hooks a finger into one of the square holes of the muzzle and tugs Jackson’s head toward him; he wonders, briefly, if he’ll try to snap at him like a real fucking dog. He seems rather tame, though. Stiles rolls his jaw, the memory of Jackson’s fist a dull ache.

“You’re a fucking brat,” he says mildly, relishing Jackson’s wounded whimper.

Peter chuckles, stretches. “Mm, yes, but isn’t he just so pretty, though?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, running a hand down Jackson’s chest. He’s seen Jackson shirtless before, countless, countless times before, but it feels so different now that he can touch. Sure, he’s always noticed his perky little nipples—hard not to—but, to actually have one between his fingers, to pinch and push as he pleases, is a comepletely different beast. Jackson tips his head back in a gasp and, ugh, his _mouth_. “So fucking pretty.”

Jackson’s head rolls forward again and he butts at Stiles’ chest, nudges at him like he wants to nuzzle and—wow, fuck, does it make Stiles fucking  _hard_. Stiles drops his hand from Jackson to alleviate some of the discomfort in his jeans only to have Peter do it, making quick work of undoing his zipper, tugging down his jeans and boxers. Peter practically coos when Stiles’ cock bobs free, half-hard with the foreskin already drawing back from the head, and Stiles gladly takes offence.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Stiles purses his lips. “Make that sound.”

“But, Stiles,” Peter fucking coos again, swiping a thumb over the slit, “You just have the cutest little cock—”

Thankfully, Jackson takes that moment to whimper and roll his hips again before Stiles can react. It pushes a surprised breath from Peter and Stiles can only watch, fascinated, as the pair forgets him in favor of a slow, easy grind he can  _see_  makes Jackson tremble. He doesn’t get the chance to feel left out, though, because Peter still has a firm hand wrapped around his dick and he starts to tug in a fierce way that has Stiles’ heart pitching into his throat.

And—And it all floods back to him, you know? That familiar touch that wrung him absolutely dry, Jackson’s anxious little noises; all of it.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shit, swallows down a curse or twelve, and Peter grins wolfishly around his quiet grunts of pleasure.

“So how should we do this, Stiles? I’m sorry his mouth,” Peter gestures up vaguely, “is a little out of commission, but besides that you can have him any way you want.”

Jackson turns his eyes back on Stiles and bites his lip as he continues to fuck himself on Peter’s cock, and scenarios flicker through Stiles’ mind despite himself, each filthier than the last. He can see Jackson on his knees like that first time, tongue lurching out to catch any of the white ropes that stripe across the muzzle; he imagines him sprawled back across the sheets, legs split apart by a spreader bar, and his hole red, wide, and abused; and, ugh, Stiles can see him all tied up in tight, intricate knots, hogtied on the floor with his skin rubbed raw, red welts streaking his skin and tears streaming down his face and—and—

And, Stiles might have some problems.

No wonder Peter’s grinning like that. Precum, viscous and clear, is already trickling over his knuckles to speckle the sheets. Wow, he’s  _gross_.

“All fours,” Stiles finally croaks, ashamed.

“Like a dog?” Peter murmurs.

Stiles nods, his fingers back Jackson’s muzzle. His gaze skitters from Jackson’s wide, damp eyes, then down to his bitten lips behind the muzzle, the collar around his bobbing Adam’s apple. “Just like the fucking mutt he is.”

Jackson whines indignantly as Peter bursts into laughter, full-bodied and loud. He wipes away the tears that prick his eyes with his palms. “Well, you’re just  _precious_ , Stiles. Here,” he says, dropping his cock and offering Jackson’s chain lead before Stiles can be offended. “He’s all yours.”

A jolt sparks up Stiles’ spine and zigzags its way to his fingertips as he takes the lead. It’s as heavy as it looks, warm and slightly wet where Peter clutched it. He stares.

“So, I just—”

“Yes.”

“Just like that?”

“Mm-hm.”

It takes Stiles a moment to realize Jackson stopped moving and now watches him intently, lips parted. He gives a tentative tug and Jackson goes with the movement. When he wraps the chain around his hand and really  _yanks_ , Jackson pulls off Peter’s cock entirely and stumbles to the edge of the bed on his knees, whimpering. His eyes are raised to him in reverence and—fuck.

He exhales sharply, the unbridled urge to control and dominate prickling beneath his skin. And, this just feels so wrong. But, that doesn’t stop him from giving in, from directing Jackson to turn around and settle on all fours, the stretch of his back glowing in the sun streaming from the cracked window and holes in the walls, the roof. Jackson’s hole winks at him, glistening with lube and precum.

“This is insane,” Stiles whispers, awe saturating his voice. He presses his thumb to the pucker and it twitches, clenches hungrily against him,  _for_  him. And, Jackson moans, casting a needy look over his freckled shoulder. Stiles finds himself dragging Jackson closer by his sharp hips until his cock’s settled heavily along his crack. “Fuck, Peter, where’s the—the—” He glances at Peter who watches them intently, stroking his own cock with slow, lazy, three-fingered pulls.

“Just put it in,” he murmurs, voice husky. “He can take it.”

“Are you kidding me—”

Jackson growls and pitches back, practically dislodging Stiles from where his knees teeter on the edge of the bed.

“Fucker,” Stiles hisses before he can stop himself, as eloquent as he can manage right now. He falls back to drag off and kick away his jeans and boxers, then returns, cock in hand.

He quickly spreads precum down his length, grateful for the slick for his own sake if not Jackson’s, and nudges his cock head between Jackson’s cheeks in blind instinct. Peter’s probably laughing at him somewhere in the edges of his attention, but Stiles is pressing in steadily and Jackson’s rolling his hips and sighing in relief and it’s so tight, so, so tight, oh god, how is it so  _tight_? He’s just tight and hot and slick and the greatest fucking place Stiles has ever had his dick (not that he has much to compare it to).

How the fuck is he going to survive more than a second without coming?

Stiles clutches Jackson’s waist for dear life, stabbing his fingers, aiming to bruise as he pushes; his eyes stay firmly glued to where they meet, where he sinks in Jackson inch by slow inch. Until, of course, Jackson squirms under him impatiently and fucking  _impales_  himself on Stiles’ dick with no more than an arch and a whine. “ _Bitch_ ,” Stiles squeaks, an aching shudder ripping through him.

Just when he’s sure he’s going to lose it there, right there, right the fuck there, his body seizing up and preparing to fire, the bed shifts and he flinches at the firm hand on his tailbone.

“Slow,” Peter whispers into his ear, hand rubbing small circles. “Breathe.”

Stiles shoot him a glare, but lets his eyes flutter shut all the same. It feels impossible, though, because his breath is coming out in short puffs and noises and his heart’s pounding through his ribs and the urge to just give in to the heat that makes his toes curl is just too strong. He feels revenge in this, some divine retribution in marking Jackson’s skin raw and coming, coming, coming inside of him until he’s full to overflowing; in a way, it’s Jackson’s repentance for years of cruelty and torture, and that’s too delicious to ignore.

Yet, there’s something soothing in the way Peter purrs to him, the words pooling in the pit of his stomach. Even if it’s just sick nonsense about Jackson being such a good pet, taking his punishment so well like this, because Jackson has this weird oral fixation thing going on, you know, that makes the muzzle strapped to his head some real kind of torture or something, and, oh, if they took it off now, Jackson would probably launch himself at the first dick in sight because of it.

Yeah, whatever Peter’s saying is really pretty fucked, but it’s getting the job done. It’s enough for Stiles to pull himself together and develop a rhythm with slow drags.

“Fuck,” he grinds out for lack of anything substantial. His nails dig further into Jackson’s hips until he’s sure he’s left crescent-shaped dents in the damned bone. “Fuck!”

Peter’s delighted rumble sends shivers down Stiles’ spine. “Do you like fucking my pup, Stiles?” He licks a wet stripe up Stiles’ neck. “Isn’t he just so perfect to punish? Isn’t he so easy?”

Fuck,  _that’s_  it, that’s the word Stiles has been searching for: easy. Jackson might be unapproachable fucking stone in the light of day, but when he’s like this, he’s absolute putty, soft and malleable and moldable. All Stiles has to do is grab the back of his neck and Jackson drops his head to the mattress instantly, face turned to the side to accommodate the muzzle. There’s something terrifying about that level of obedience, but then Jackson clenches and Stiles tumbles into a hazy world of pleasure once more.

The slick slap of skin on skin rings in his ears with Peter’s filthy whispers and Jackson’s tight cries beneath it, and it’s all like some kind of symphony, effective ambiance that he can find the rhythm in naturally. He shoves Jackson further onto the bed so he can climb up himself, raising a leg so he can shove deep deep deep until Jackson’s vibrating with his yowls.

There are so many things he can think to say—filthy names, accusations, commands—but only pants and grunts leave him. But, when he catches Jackson reaching for his weeping cock, barking, “ _No_ ,” comes easily, automatically. Jackson claws his fingers into his hair and  _sobs_  his distress.

Desperate and horny’s a good look on him, Stiles thinks.

Peter chuckles and presses kisses behind Stiles’ ear, hot breath on Stiles’ neck making him shiver. “He’s wanted this for so long, you know,” he whispers against his skin. Stiles is suddenly hyperaware of how Peter rubs his cock across his stomach, trailing filthy precum there. “It’s all he talked about.”

Stiles manages a snort and slows his thrusts to an easy drag to stave off his orgasm. “You taught him how to talk? I’m— _ah_ —impressed.”

That startles a laugh from Peter. “Oh yes. And, he can fetch and roll over for his Daddy, too,” he says, pausing to nip at his ear.

“Yet he still— _fuck_ —has a biting problem? I’d say your obedience school is kind of shit, dude.”

Jackson’s really starting to cry now. Tears stream down his face, across the black leather strips that make up the muzzle, and he sniffles quietly, makes disgusting wet noises that shouldn’t make Stiles’ balls ache but do. He looks ready to shatter into a million, million pieces and, shit, Stiles is right there with him, honestly.

Peter smiles thinly. “Do you want to know a secret, Stiles?”

“I’ve never been one for ‘get rich quick’ schemes, but—” Stiles gives a shaky laugh. “Shoot.”

Peter wordlessly makes his way to Jackson’s side and Jackson mewls when he trails his finger from his flexing shoulder blades, his trembling sides, to the gentle slope of his lower back and the curve of cheek. His hand splays across the dimple there for a moment before raising just a bit from the surface and—oh. Oh fuck yeah, Stiles knows  _exactly_  where this is going. And, if Jackson’s glowing blue eyes and high, desperate keen are anything to go by, he does, too.

Jackson yelps at the first, sharp crack to his ass cheek and fucking  _clamps_  around Stiles’ cock, shocking a shout—“Christ!”—out of him in the process. A groan tearing from his throat, Stiles’ clutches Jackson tighter, draws thin lines of blood as his hips stutter against Jackson, and Jackson gives a strangled cry.

Peter grins devilishly down at the stinging cheek. “He can come just from that, you know. Amazing, am I right?” he says conversationally.

Stiles sputters a response that sounds a lot like a tight, “ _Holy shit_ ,” and the renewed slap of a quickened rhythm. Even so, he lets Peter pry one of his hands away from Jackson’s bruising skin and place it on Jackson’s ass.

“Make him howl,” Peter whispers, kissing the faint remnants of Jackson’s bite on Stiles’ shoulder. He shuffles his way back to the head of the bed then, cock in hand.

Stiles stares after him for a moment, heartbeat pounding in his throat. Until his attention turns to what’s under his palm. Jackson’s ass is already pink and fiery hot to the touch after only one spank and bounces with every single one of Stiles’ deep thrusts; when he swipes a thumb over a stretch of it, Jackson sucks in a breath and his teeth find his lips behind the muzzle once more. He looks fucked-out, equally exhausted and high-strung.

Someone should probably take pity on him. Unfortunately, that someone isn’t Stiles.

Jackson chokes when Stiles scrabbles for his chain lead and tugs, jerking him back up on his hands. And, when Stiles gets a hand tangled in his hair, Jackson readily lets Stiles’ pull his head back, lets himself be led, body heaving with his frantic breaths and the snout of his muzzle bobbing in the air and he’s just so _pathetic_. Is this really the guy Stiles feared in middle school and despised in high school?

“You really like this, don’t you?” Stiles says, honestly surprised. Another choked noise answers him, but Stiles can barely hear it over the slap, the squelch of his thrusts and the blood rushing in his ears. He continues, voice hoarse, “Is this what you’ve wanted, Jackson? Is it everything you—you—” He darts a glance at Peter who smiles back at him, stroking himself with slow pulls. “Is this everything you’d talk to your—heh, fuck—your  _Daddy_  about?”

Jackson doesn’t grace him with a real response, but that’s okay; Stiles doesn’t need one. All he cares about is the way Jackson spasms beneath him,  _around_  him, when he gives his ass a tentative smack. It barely gets him a whimper, so he does it again and again and again and again and again, harder and harder, until Jackson’s torn the sheet in his claws to shreds and practically screeches for release.

But, he’s not  _howling_.

And, Stiles is too  _close_.

Fuck it. It’s not like Stiles is in this to make  _Jackson_  come.

Jackson collapses like a house of cards with a sob when Stiles drops him in favor of clutching at his waist for leverage. Because pound into him is more important, coming is more important, and— _fuck_ —Stiles is a hairsbreadth away from doing that.

And, when Peter drags Jackson close by his muzzle to fucking shoot his load across the black leather and those pretty, pretty blue wolf eyes, Stiles does.

“Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuck—” Stiles hisses through gritted teeth, his orgasm ripping through him and pummeling his fucking nerve endings until they flash bright and burn to ash. He scratches down Jackson’s back in red streaks, claws over his tender, hot ass and—oh, oh  _fuck_ , there it is. Jackson arches his spine into a sharp bow and really  _howls_ , fiery and feral and fierce enough for Stiles to feel in his guts. “Holy shit! Shit!”

Stiles grinds hard into Jackson’s ass as he paints his insides white with each sharp spasm before he goes still, stuffed deep, deep inside, and just basks in it all. Because, yeah, fuck. Like  _fuck_.

“Oh my god,” he sighs, dropping his forehead onto Jackson’s shaky, sweaty back. “Oh man—oh fuck.”

Peter laughs lightly as he continues to stroke himself, hand wet and breathless from his own orgasm. “Good?” he asks mildly.

“Shut the fuck up,” Stiles groans. He should probably be embarrassed by the fact that he’s drooling, but, again, this is all just …  _fuck_. He flails in a mildly threatening fashion when Peter laughs harder. “Shut it! Just let me—let me— _goddamn_.”

It takes a moment for Stiles to muster the strength to pull out. He gasps, watching the sticky globs of seed that spill free to slide down Jackson’s sac, a tense thigh. His hole twitches, clenches at the loss, and that’s a picture that’ll be etched in the back of Stiles’ brain for eternity and then some. They sit like that for a tense moment, Stiles behind Jackson’s quaking legs and Peter rubbing his wet slit against Jackson’s shoulder, and, wow, can we talk about this picture instead?

Once Stiles finally pushes at him, Jackson falls on his side and curls up around Peter—his Daddy—who runs fingers through his pup’s sweat-dampened hair. And, the atmosphere has changed somehow, Stiles realizes. With the way Jackson whimpers, jerks, in desperation and Peter watches him with something other than his sleazy grin … Stiles starts to feel like he’s intruding on something.

Then, it all floods back to him, the dread cold. He fucking  _wrecked_  Jackson, didn’t he?

Guilty, he swallows thickly and begins edging off the bed. His knees buckle, practically knock together, as he clambers to his feet, unsure of where he’s going or what he’s doing exactly and hopeful his body can lead him the right way. He quickly plots out an escape plan and, maybe, an apology of his own. “Uh, okay, so, I’ll just—”

“Stiles, I wouldn’t go just yet.”

Stiles freezes, bent over to collect his boxers. When he peers over the bed, he comes face to face with a freshly muzzle-less Jackson, eyes wild, glowing, and his tongue lolling out.

Oh sweet baby Jesus.

Peter only smirks, saying, “Why don’t you let Jackson clean you up first?” Jackson purrs low in agreement, lips plump and wet.

And, this is crazy. This is, like, twenty different kinds of insane and wrong and, probably, illegal in this state, and this is bad, really bad, because if someone doesn’t rein Stiles in now, if someone doesn’t leash  _him_ —

This is going to start something.

Against his better judgment, Stiles finds himself standing and threading his fingers into Jackson’s hair. And when Jackson takes Stiles' still-sensitive cock into his mouth and promptly comes messily all over himself, Stiles doesn't bat an eyelash.

Because, for a third time,  _fuck_.


End file.
